The Papaya Incident

Elena stood in the breakroom, staring at the forgotten papaya on the counter. It had been there for three days—since Marcus's last day. Someone had carved it into a smiley face, the brown spots giving it a macabre grin.

"You going to eat that?" asked David, leaning against the doorframe. His suit jacket was draped over his arm, his hat—a ridiculous fedora he'd started wearing after his divorce—sat crooked on his head.

"It's turning into alcohol," Elena said. "Like Marcus's liver did."

David flinched. Everyone was still raw about the overdose. Marcus had been the office golden boy, the one who'd landed the Morrison account, the one everyone assumed would make partner. Instead, he'd made himself a cocktail of vodka and vitamin supplements and stepped off his twentieth-floor balcony.

The company had sent a memo. Changed the health insurance to include therapy. Installed a cable across the rooftop terrace, as if that would stop anyone who really wanted to leave.

"I brought you something," David said, setting a bottle of artisanal water on the counter. "Coconut flavor. From that new place downtown."

Elena looked at him. Really looked at him. David, who'd been Marcus's rival for seven years. David, who'd gotten the promotion Marcus died for. David, who was suddenly always there, always bringing her things, always looking at her with that desperate intensity.

"Why?" she asked.

He shifted his weight. The fedora tilted precariously. "Because I know what it's like. To be the one left behind."

"Marcus was my friend. You hated him."

"I hated that he had everything I wanted." David's voice cracked. "But I never wanted it like this."

The papaya sat between them, grinning its brown-spotted grin. Outside, the city hummed with indifference. Somewhere, someone was having the best day of their life. Somewhere, someone was having the worst.

Elena picked up the water bottle. "Coconut flavor?"

"It's supposed to be calming."

She cracked it open. "David."

"Yeah?"

"Take off the hat."

He did. His hair was thinning, his eyes tired. He looked nothing like Marcus. He looked like someone who'd survived.

"Better," she said.

They stood there as the office building hummed around them, two people who hadn't gotten what they wanted, finding something else in the breakroom beside a rotting papaya and a bottle of coconut water. Something quieter. Something real.